May 25. It used to be my mother's birthday. I don't recall any "celebrations" per se. But hers was right before mine and I guess there are just some dates you never forget.
We had a strained relationship, if "relationship" is even what it could be called.
I was markedly younger than my three older sisters. One sister called her "Mommy" even as an adult. They would take walks together around the neighborhood. It was pretty clear who the favored child was. And none of them called my father "Dad." They had a name they used, which I won't repeat because even as a child I knew or sensed that it was disrespectful. He never said anything about it though. Then again, not much was EVER said in our house, which may be why those walks taken by my sister and mother stick in my memory. I was jealous. It's like they were members of a special club and I was not. What did they talk about? What was being said and shared?
I was twelve years old and came home from school late due to volleyball. It was a gorgeously autumnal day, breezy, the sun was going down, leaves were flying in the air. I walked in and I could small hamburgers cooking. My father came out to me and told me to go upstairs. This was very odd. In my room, he told me he was leaving. Pffft. That was it. He was leaving.
I didn't take it very well. I know I was crying. I asked about counseling and he said that "was in the movies." He left. It had started to rain, and I watched him drive off through the rain and through my tears. Lesly Gore's "It's My Party" was playing on my little transistor radio. ("and I'll cry if I want to")
I remember my mother telling me I was being "dramatic." She wanted me to come downstairs and eat. Was she kidding? And with that....I don't remember a thing. Nothing. For how long? A month? Two?
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As I said, our relationship was strained. I was stuck in that house with her until I graduated from high school, at which point I began to make a series of awful decisions, terrible mistakes. All I wanted to do was get away from her.
Over the years we had on again, off again contact. But once I was in New York City and comfortable in a job, that contact became more sporadic and eventually disappeared.
I had my one and only child at age 36. Somehow, I don't remember precisely how, when my daughter was four or five, my mother and I started exchanging letters. She sent a few small gifts and occasional checks. She said in one note, "You try to tell your children that you love them." That statement sent me through the stinking roof. You try? You TRY??? Well, mother, if you tried, you failed. I never got that message. I got left out. I got ignored. I had my hopes and dreams for my own future destroyed. But thanks for letting me know you tried.
Soon after that I received a letter from my sister...the one who used to take walks with my mother. My mother had died. There would be no funeral.
So, today used to be her birthday. My mother, the enigma, the mystery.
